Chapter 11 - The Return of the Specter
The late-summer sun beat down on the sprawling construction site of the Mercer-Brooks estate, turning the fresh timber and drywall dust into a haze of golden light. Outside, the framework of the new front porch was already taking shape, complete with the wide steps and the space reserved for a bright, unmistakable yellow door.
Hannah stood on the temporary plywood landing, rolling up the blueprints in her hand, when a sharp crunch of gravel from the driveway caught her attention.
A sleek black town car—a model discontinued three years prior—slowed to a halt near the gate.
Hannah’s breath hitched.
The rear door clicked open, and a woman stepped out. Jocelyn Cole looked older, her silver hair uncoifed, wearing a simple black trench coat that seemed entirely out of place in the summer heat. The imperious, diamond-encrusted armor of Manhattan society had been stripped away, leaving behind only the sharp, desperate edges of a woman who had lost everything.
"Looking for your old throne, Jocelyn?" a cold voice cut through the hum of power saws.
Ethan stepped out from the main house, his sleeves rolled up, a carpenter's pencil tucked behind his ear. He didn't run. He walked slowly, planting himself squarely between Jocelyn and the doorway where Hannah stood.
May you like
Jocelyn ignored Ethan entirely. Her hollow, feverish eyes locked onto Hannah.
"You think you won," Jocelyn rasped, taking a tentative step forward past the security gate. "You think because my son is blinded by sentimentality that you've secured your little fairytale in the suburbs. But money runs out, Hannah. Names fade. And bloodlines always demand a reckoning."
